after fury
what do you do
Fingers came together for an instant, before he maneuvered away, allowed the power to permeate and infuse along her touch, and within an instant they were immersed within starlight, a barrier, a tide of constellations and galaxies to ward off treacherous embers and tremulous waves. It reminded him of the sky without LongNight’s fabrications and touch, steady and stalwart amongst the vast paradigms and complexities; without its monsters, without its void, without its unfurling abyss. His eyes went from the stars surrounding them and then back to her, to watch, to wait for her reaction, if it was enough, if he’d done enough, to ward off the faltering lines of barbarity. Her response kindled some warmth back in his bones, in his lungs, in his skin, and the Cheshire grin fell to something more substantial in emotions than just amusement above the flames; a smile, dimpled and boyish. “You are welcome.” Any other words fell away as the shield flickered back into its threshold, within the charm, until it had to be called again. Hands and palms joined, and he loosened the breath he’d been holding, permitting its extinguished ire, no longer confined to the unknown. Then she moved back into him, weights of worlds, bitter, intrepid designs, pressed across his chest, and he took it all, withstood so she didn’t have to, arms reaching around to bring her closer. His ignorance was an overwhelming persistence in his skull, the perils and strife pushing against him until he really couldn’t fathom anything else, bewildered in the uncertainty, in the unresolved occasions, in the unfamiliar depths he meandered and strolled upon – like surface level tension, just waiting for something to send him plummeting.
She pulled away, and he looked down, staring upon her with his head tilted, eyes mired in concern. But the Shield offered the Sword those glimpses, slivers and fractures, and he wouldn’t take them for granted. All he gave in response was a nod, afraid anything else would end up suffocated or choked down his throat, barbed, nettled, or simply confused; the agreement lingering when his calloused palms drifted back into hers, and they maneuvered along the background, a part of the scenery and shadows amidst sanctums and sanctuaries. He opened the door to their room and held it until she entered – Kiada not there, the chill of that notion racing up his spine too – and then shutting it, alone with their secrets, shells, and souls.
with the remains?
DEIMOS
